


Repairs

by GreenWoman



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:28:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenWoman/pseuds/GreenWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was inspired by a discussion on Senad about Garett Maggart's work as a carpenter and furniture maker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repairs

The well-crafted sign nailed to the door of the shed read, "Blair Sandburg. Custom Furniture. Repairs."

Sawdust danced in the shaft of light angling in from the door. Blair pulled the mask from his face and ran his fingers along the bowed piece of black walnut that he'd been sanding. Smooth, even ... a righteous afternoon's work. The chair would be sturdy and serviceable, but with a quiet elegance.

A sudden memory brought a tremor to his hand. *Feel that, Chief?*

Damn.

He ran the sander for a moment to clear the belt, then set it carefully on the workbench. A soft cloth fragrant with tung oil was draped over the edge and he grasped it tightly, still shaking a bit, before he turned back to his work. Blair lost himself in the motion of back and forth as he rubbed the top rail, and the wood came alive at the oil's touch, glowing with a subdued and elegant radiance. 

A sharp sneeze behind him froze Blair in mid-stroke, and a sniffle caused his head to turn slowly. Bright sunlight outlined the figure of the man standing in the doorway and darkened his features, but the silhouette was unmistakable.

"Jim."

The man stepped out of the sun and into the soft darkness of the shed, and Blair's eyes could now see the familiar face ... older, harder, the corners of the eyes drawn tight. Three years had been hard on the Sentinel, and the Guide's pain at seeing it must have been clear.

"Chief." The barest of whispers, as if asking to be heard was a trespass.

The oily cloth twisted in Blair's hands; he needed something to hold onto. He told his own story in like fashion when his eyes met those of the older man.

"I'm sorry, Chief. Blair. I'm sorry. I was wrong." 

"Were you?"

"Yes. Yes."

And Jim stepped forward, and Blair stepped back and his worn boot heel rocked awkwardly on a scrap of cherry and his weight shifted, and then Jim was there ... strong hands on his shoulders, catching him, holding him steady as he had always used to do. For a moment the past gripped Blair as firmly as Jim did, and the Sentinel saw it and let hope stir.

He tightened his hands on the sturdy shoulders, and met Blair's gaze with regret and cautious invitation.

Something twisted in Blair's chest, an old pain too long in place to be released but somehow lessened.

"Why now?" he blurted out. "After all this time..."

"Is it too late?"

Blair felt the hands on his shoulders, and the memories good and bad swept through him. "I don't know," he whispered.

Jim's hands fell away, and Blair felt the wrongness of it, and he dropped the cloth twisted in his fingers and reached out for Jim.

"No," he said. "No, it isn't."

And it took time, but in the end, Blair was right.

And the new sign said, "Blair Sandburg. Jim Ellison. Custom Furniture. Repairs."

~ 30 ~


End file.
